"Dy hannie Patrick Noo shin as nyn maaty" (May St. Patrick bless us and our boat) with something about the living and the dead—the crew and the fish.
After that came the throwing of the salt, a more robustious and less religious ceremony, which threw Fenella into fits of laughter.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
"Goodness knows!"
"How delightful!"
The grey twilight came down from the northern heavens, and then night fell—a dark night without moon but with a world of stars. Stowell and Fenella were leaning over the side to watch the phosphorescent gleams which, like flashes of light under the surface, came from the fish that were darting away from the prow.
"Isn't it wonderful—the fish going on and on to the goal of their perpetual travels?" said Fenella.
"They always come back to the place they were spawned, though," said Stowell.
"Like humans, are they? You remember—'Back to the heart's place here I keep for thee.'"
Stowell felt as if a hand were at his throat again. "Bye and bye," he thought. Before they turned in for the night he would tell her everything.